my own vine and victory
by DrinkingAlcoholicRainbows
Summary: George Washington honestly did think he would make a good father. Apparently, the sullen seventeen year old in front of him thought different. :: It's Alexander Hamilton's first day at the Washingtons, and he's holed himself up in his room. George thinks he can fix that with a nice meal. A prequel of sorts to what time is it (school time).


**A/N: Yes, this is a prequel of sorts to _what time is it (school time)._ Yes, I am proud because this is the longest one-shot I've ever written. Yes, I know that the actual lyric is _my own vine and fig tree_. But hey, alliteration is cool. And that's the way I first heard it anyway, and I feel like it's a little more fitting as a title. Please enjoy!**

* * *

George didn't know how to deal with this.

His coworkers and students have always called him the fatherly type - especially with how he treated his, he rather unashamedly admits, favorite student named Gilbert de Lafayette. Even Martha mocked him for his tendency to melt at the sight of children, and his seeming unending patience for even the most unruly of students. He tried not to let it get to his head much, but he honestly he did think he would make a good father.

Apparently, the sullen seventeen year old in front of him thought different.

Alexander was - for lack of any original thought - a hurricane of a boy. Seabury had dropped him here just this morning, and the boy had done nothing but glare at him since. He hadn't said a word once they were left alone together, and George thought it best to simply let the boy to come to him if there need be.

He had known that he wasn't getting an ordinary boy, especially when he had read the boy's file with eyebrows raised, and he hopefully thought that he was getting a diamond in the rough. He was rather impressed with the boy's achievements and overall determination in life, and had envisioned a strapping young man with fire in his eyes to come knocking by his doorstep the second he signed the papers.

Instead, he got a thin wisp of a boy with shaky shoulders and the haughty posture of a lion. His only words to George were, "Alexander Hamilton, sir. Good day," before shrugging off to the living room where he, George, and Seabury discussed Alexander's new life as a foster child under the Washingtons. George, who was sneaking a few glances at the boy every now and then, noted that Alexander seemed too antsy to properly sit still.

But frankly, this was getting a little ridiculous. The boy had holed himself in his room with nothing to eat - and George doubted he was doing anything of any immediate purpose. Some softly muttered curses constantly made themselves heard from Alexander's room and they assured the man that he wasn't asleep, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what the boy was doing. There was no telltale blabber from a television, no ongoing talk with someone who might have called, not even a strangled off moan from, well, standard teenage behavior.

When Seabury leaned in to George's ear to darkly warn, "You better watch for his mouth and better yet, wash it with soap for every second he doesn't stop barraging you with his words," he obviously meant that his little liege was incredibly, to the point of annoyance and recklessness, _loud_.

Which is why the silence now bothered George immensely. Setting his cup down, he made his way to the second bedroom on the right and knocked on the door. "Alexander?" he called.

A small creak. Alexander peeked through the tiny space with which he allowed himself to be seen. He looked messier than before, with his hair in disarray and his hoodie rumpled. George wondered if he was asleep.

He cleared his throat. "I was wondering if you would like to come shopping with me."

Alexander narrowed his eyes, and yet he acquiesced with a small nod of his head. He retreated back into his room, combed his hair into a ponytail, and put his hood on before reappearing once more. George couldn't help but sigh.

He made his tone his softer than usual when he spoke however. He did not miss Alexander flinch. "There's nothing wrong, I promise you," he said. "But I would prefer seeing your face, Alexander. Do remove your hood."

With a slight hesitance, he did as he was told.

"Very good," George smiled. "Please, do not feel as though you need to hide. This is your home now, and I would be delighted to see you take comfort in it."

They walked together to the front door in silence. George opened it and gestured toward the outside world in a sweeping motion. "After you," he said.

And in what George considered to be perhaps the most hopeful moment in the past six hours, Alexander looked at him with fire in his eyes and an almost devious smirk and said, "Dear sir, you are far too kind."

* * *

They made their way to the mall in relative silence. Alexander, as if somehow losing his spark, made do with rhythmically tapping his fingers on his lap while gazing out the window. George personally preferred humming along to the songs on the radio, keeping his eyes on the road.

Once they entered the building, Alexander seemed to puff out his chest a little at the sight of so many people. Not looking at George, he said, "May I ask what we're doing here, sir?"

Again with all that _sir_ business. George chose to let it slide this time. "I figured we needed ingredients for tonight's supper."

Alexander raised an eyebrow. "Who will be cooking?"

George tried his best to hide a smile. "Martha called earlier to warn me that she might be late in coming home later. She sends her regrets and she wishes to see you soon, but it's been quite a busy day. So by process of elimination, you'll be tasting my food tonight."

"Well," Alexander considered, after a moment's pause. "I know how to chop vegetables."

"Perfect," he said, eyes twinkling. "There are a great many things one can cook when presented with chopped vegetables. I expect you don't disappoint me, Alexander."

The boy simply smiled at him, with a touch of bitterness marring his lips.

Sensing the increased awkwardness of the situation, George cleared his throat. "However, I suppose that supper can wake. While the house is in need of restocking, it's of much better use if we devote ourselves to aiming to fill your closet."

At this, Alexander seemed almost stricken. "Sir, please," he said, "I have enough clothes to last."

"I am not arguing that," George hesitated before choosing not to add _my boy_. He feared Alexander might close up again. "However I do try to ensure comfort amongst the people who reside in my house."

For the first time, he saw Alexander visibly restrain himself from snapping back a witty retort in protest. _In due time_ , George reminded himself. _In due time._

* * *

Alexander seemed rather out of place for a seventeen year old in the mall. He would look at the most mundane things with a burning envy, like he never before had the chance to attain them. He always made some half-aborted attempt to crane his head a little more, accompanied by a small step he would always take back. And though George did take ample interest in a small watch shop, Alexander's eyes seemed to perk up with every store they passed, scanning and restless and hungry for luxury.

But every time George asked if he wanted to go inside, he would furrow his eyebrows and adamantly refuse. "I have to earn it first," he'd say, with a determined set to his mouth. That's all he would ever say.

So George pulled him into a department store and hoped that Alexander would allow himself some amenities, at the very least, since the boy seemed to talk as though he had to work for his own comfort when George would gladly give him clothes sewn with pure gold if he wished. He understood the need to earn, and he greatly admired and respected those who chose to strive for it, but Alexander was just a _boy_.

His heart ached to watch Alexander browse around the clothes, looking and touching but never actually getting some for himself. He was so much younger than he tried to present himself. George felt guilty of the slight resentment he felt when he first saw Alexander; he had expected a bright, hopeful youth and had received a ghost.

 _There was fire in his eyes just moments ago,_ George thought.

Straightening his posture, George walked up next to the boy, who eyeing a line of hoodies. "See anything you might like?" he asked.

Alexander's eyes drifted to him for a moment, before he spoke. "Truthfully, I think they're all too drab. When they said America was the greatest country in the world, I didn't think to see tasteless excuses for fashion."

George bit back a laugh. "Then I assume you've seen better?"

He was looking at him again, his expression almost _insulted_. "I bet I could design better," Alexander huffed. "Would you believe that I once had a friend that did better clothes than this? He was thirteen years old and he's better than what I assume are seasoned professionals."

"Sounds rather familiar," George hummed, a huge black boy with a raucous grin coming into mind. "However I have to say that clothes in the department store aren't exactly what you'd call the hottest from the fashion line."

"I suppose," Alexander considered, though he still looked a bit miffed. His arms were crossed and his mouth was set to an angry pout, which most amusedly had reminded George of a wet, disgruntled kitten. "But I'm still of the opinion that they could at least _try_ to do better."

"Agreed," George said, guiding Alexander out of the department store. In his mind's eye, George tried to imagine the two of them; an annoyed teenager complaining about the most mundane of things to a smiling man with a hand on his back. He tried his best not to call attention to the kind of image that they made, and savored the feeling of Alexander doing nothing more but glare at the offending pieces of clothing and walking with him.

"They don't even _match_ ," Alexander whined, pointing at a mannequin.

George simply shook his head and smiled wearily. "No they don't, son," he said, before he could stop himself. "No they don't."

* * *

Alexander hasn't looked at him since.

They bought vegetables and cooking ingredients in stony silence, with George often asking questions to the tight-lipped Alexander. The boy had done nothing more than desperately fail to hide his scowl every time he faced him, and the most friendly interaction they had so far was when Alexander had tilt his head in confusion when George said he was planning to cook chop suey.

"It's a Chinese dish," he explained, keeping his voice light and evenly measured as he placed baby corn cobs in their cart. "It's easy to keep down and easy to prepare, and best served with rice and sweet tea."

Alexander's words came out as uncharacteristically slow and hesitant. "Couldn't we have something else?"

"Well, of course," George said, as he carefully inspected a group of carrots. "But I figured we needed to end the night on a relaxing note. It's been quite a harrowing day for my wife, you see, and you and I have spent two hours simply transversing through clothes lines and grocery aisles."

"Sorry for being such a _bother_ ," Alexander suddenly spat, glaring at the floor.

"I never said that," George responded, still not looking at the boy. "Stop twisting my words. All I meant is that we needed to take a break every once in a while. Now, do you prefer a sweet blend for our dish tonight?"

"What's the use of taking a break when there's so much more to be done?" Alexander bitterly muttered, his grip tight on the cart. "When all that time is wasted and we could all die tomorrow, what's the use of taking a vacation when there's so much work left simply waiting for its completion?"

Now that George looked at him, he could see that Alexander was visibly shaking. He leaned in to place a hand on the boy's shoulder to calm him, but he shook it off in a mixture of panic, fright, and distrust.

" _You're not my father,_ " he hissed.

George let his hand fall but his voice was stern when he spoke. "I'm not, and I admit that. But when another person is showing signs of having a panic attack and I can recognize it for what it is, then I don't have any excuse but to help."

It was probably a sign that things were bad when an angry Alexander could do nothing more than breathe heavily at him. _Barrage you with his words_ , Seabury had said, but they had seemed more like a barricade today. A series of walls put up to hide the helpless boy instead. It wasn't typically in his nature to pry, but George wondered just what Alexander had truly been through in the past years to put him in such a state.

 _A smart, independent young man,_ said his records. _Birth mother dead, and his birth father nowhere to be found. Separated from his brother. Originally from the Caribbean, his hometown had gathered enough funds for him to obtain a more prodigious education in America._

Finally, in Seabury's fancy handwritten script, _This boy is non-stop; not one for the faint of heart!_

George had thought he could handle it - whatever _it_ entailed. He wondered if Alexander could; or if, he ever knew that he had to.

"Alright, take a deep breath," he softly instructed. "Can you count with me?"

Alexander was shaking, he was hiding his face behind his hands, and his eyes were suspiciously wet. He was still in the middle of a deep breath when he managed, "I don't... _need_...your help."

"Of course not," George acquiesced. "But _I_ need your help with counting how many items we have in our shopping cart. Is that alright?"

He still had the gall to narrow his eyes at him.

George took that as a yes.

"One," Alexander counted, his voice quivering just a bit as he pointed at a bottle of cooking oil.

"Two," he continued, his knuckles whitening from gripping too tight on the cart, as he eyed a pack full of mini chocolate bars.

"T-Thr- _Trois,_ " he stuttered out, squeezing his eyes shut.

When it was apparent that Alexander wasn't going to do much more than take large, desperate gasps of breath, George quietly whispered, "You're not done yet, Alexander. Go on. Do what you must."

" _S'il vous-_ Thank you," he managed, bowing his head. " _Quatre._ No, four. Five, six, seven, and lastly, eight items. You know, for the time being."

"For the time being," George agreed, turning his back on Alexander to freely let the boy compose himself on his own. "More to be added as time goes by, until the job is done and we all go home and enjoy the end of a good day's work."

He was about to beckon Alexander to follow him to the counter when he felt something poke his shoulder.

It turned out to be a small bottle of coconut water.

"It doesn't go well with, well, whatever you're planning to cook," Alexander blurted out, holding the bottle in front of him. "But it's a familiar taste to me. It's not the sweet tea that you talked about but this is really good. It's a little pricey but I figured you wouldn't mind much? I got the small one, just for me, so you can still have your sweet tea with your, um, dinner."

George took the bottle and hummed disapprovingly as he put it back.

Immediately, Alexander started talking as fast as any human mouth could talk. "I mean, really, it's probably not to the taste of your palate but I'll pay for it myself, if I have to. I'm the only one who wants to drink it anyway so it makes a lot of sense, actually, if I -"

"Relax," George reminded him. "I was going to get a bigger bottle so we can all have a taste. Martha would love it, I'm sure."

So he placed a liter of coconut water in the cart. " _Neuf_ ," he said.

Alexander just nodded tersely, and followed George to the counter.

* * *

Once they were home, Alexander immediately set to work on unpacking the vegetables.

"Don't dice them," George said, heaving their only bag on the top of the table. "We need large chunks of each, similar somewhat to a stew. Chop seuy basically only amounts to vegetables accompanied with a considerable volume of thick soup. Therefore I'm trusting you with the most important part of our dish."

"Yes sir," Alexander replied, rinsing a knife.

George grabbed a few plates and utensils from their kitchen cabinets. "I'll leave you for a few moments. When I arrive, I expect you to be done or close to it. You do know why I chose you, right?"

He watched Alexander freeze. "No sir," he said, after a moment.

Staring Alexander in the eyes, he delivered in his most serious tone, "I chose you because I chase after excellence. Reading your file, I recognized that very same aspect of mine in yourself. And in a second's worth of deliberation I decided to give you a home where you'll be given the chance to freely nurture that in an environment in which you'll have support.

"When I was young, I thought I could change the world," George confessed; not softly, but simply matter of fact. "I still do think that, but that's only because my drive has put me in a place where I am allowed to make change happen. So I adopted you as my foster son, hoping that I could give you some semblance of that.

"You have youth and determination and all the time in the world," he ended. "So I expect you to do your best and make me proud, and I fully believe that you'll be able to."

Alexander looked at him and stated, "You're not my father."

"No, I am not," George agreed.

"Good," Alexander said. "It's for the best that you're nothing like him."

And with that, he returned back to the cutting board and started chopping vegetables. George left him, breathing a sigh of relief.

* * *

Martha came home about an hour later.

"You wouldn't _believe_ the work we had today," she whined, taking off her coat and kicking off her shoes. "An middle-aged man had the gall to complain about our lack of expertise in organizing birthday parties of all things. You would think he would have heard that _Casa de Blanca_ specializes in organizing events of a more refined and classy tone."

"Kicking off your shoes isn't refined _or_ classy," George remarked, smiling as he finished setting up the table. "Welcome home, dear."

"Welcome home indeed," Martha said, wrapping her arms around him from behind. "I heard we weren't living alone anymore today. Where's Alexander?"

George hummed softly. "He's in his bedroom. You'll meet him at dinner, I suppose?"

"I do think I am in need of a relaxing bath before I imbibe myself with your," she glanced at the chopsticks on the table, "attempts at replicating Asian cuisine. Japanese tonight?"

"We made chop seuy. Alexander chopped vegetables," George added.

"Ah yes, Chinese food," Martha chuckled. "I recall a certain someone who failed in doing the most important part when making the exact same dish. He got infamous for it, didn't he?"

"I know better now," George said. He turned so he could freely kiss Martha on her forehead. "Besides, I recall a certain someone who fell in love with that man who horrendously failed to cook such a dish in a Chinese cooking contest, of all things."

Martha laughed softly as she buried her head in his shoulder. "He knows better now, and went on to be known for things other than his mistakes. As such, you can say that I fell in love with the man who realized that he was more than his failures and went on to become one of the most respected persons of this state."

"Always overshadowed by his amazing wife," George murmured into her hair. "Soon to be overshadowed by his amazing son."

She slowly pulled away from him to pick up her shoes from where she left them on the door. Leaning down, she said, "Don't put so much pressure on him, George. He's only seventeen and you've only just met the boy."

George leaned on the counter. "I know," he sighed. He smiled wearily at his wife. "But you weren't _with_ him for the day, Martha. You haven't met. We were only together for a few hours yet and I know there's potential for greatness there, I just know it. Besides, he seems more like the type to exceed the expectations set upon him than feel burdened by them."

"Be that as it may," Martha hummed. "We should still support him even when he isn't doing his best. Who knows what that boy will do unsupervised?"

"As I recall, his hometown was so inspired by his smarts and story that they sent him here to pursue the greener pastures that he seemed more attuned to," George remarked.

Martha sighed. "I'm not saying he isn't smart, George. I'm saying that he's still prone to inane acts of stupidity."

She raised her eyebrow at him. "You yourself are a prime example of that. I'm sure that the boy has his limits and I'm sure that I've already reached mine for the day. I'm having my bath now."

As she was going upstairs, he called out, "Did you meet with George König today?"

Martha stopped in her movements to make an expression of pure disgust. "Henry Laurens."

George looked up at her. "My sympathies."

* * *

After ten minutes, they were all seated at the dinner table. A delicious dish of vegetables at the center, clean plates with intricate painted designs, bowls of steaming hot rice, chop sticks to their side, and glasses full of coconut water and ice cubes adorned the mahogany table. The three of them took a moment to inhale the sweet scent of a finely cooked dinner. Though Alexander looked a bit confused as he stared at the table, George decided not to call him out on it.

Martha glanced amusedly at her husband. "This looks different."

"It's the Filipino take on the dish," George explained from his seat at the head to the table. "My new coworker cooked it all for us at her first day of work and Karla seemed very happy to share her recipe with me. I only hope I did it justice. Please, enjoy yourselves."

"Of course, that sentiment applies especially to you, Alexander. We'd be happy if we could serve you to the best of our abilities," smiled Martha. "I'm Martha, George's wife. It's a complete pleasure to finally be meeting you and to welcome you home."

It warmed George's heart to see Alexander smile back, if a bit hesitantly. "I'm glad to meet you too, miss."

Alexander insisted that the both of them eat first, and they both reluctantly took their share of the food. He simply sat there, observing them, sipping from his glass every now and then. It must have been five minutes before he slowly took reached out to grab his chopsticks.

Martha, who was also taking a few moments to check on the boy, said, "There are some forks and spoons and the like in the drawer behind you, Alexander. Don't be ashamed to use them."

He looked like a dear caught in the headlights for a moment before he smoothed his face out to a more sheepish expression. "Thank you, miss. But please, don't think of my hesitance as a refusal to eat. It's just been a long time since I've drank coconut water and I welcome its familiarity."

Alexander held up his chopsticks. "Not my first time to use these either."

Martha still looked a bit dubious, so George cut her off before she could say anything. "Whatever's comfortable with you," he smiled, and successfully closed the topic. He may have even heard Alexander breathe out a sigh of relief, which was good. It meant George was starting to figure him out, just a little bit.

* * *

Dinner, George felt, was a success. After that almost-fiasco with the utensils, they flowed into an easy conversation about the day. Apparently, while George and Alexander had been shopping, Martha had an incredibly stressful day at work. She spent two hours trying to convince Henry Laurens that planning an eighteen-year-old's birthday party was not included in the company business, even if that eighteen-year-old's father was an important statesman and a valued member of the Republican party.

"He kept blabbering on about how his dearest John was the eldest of the family and deserved no less than the best," laughed Martha. "I'd believe that if I didn't know for a fact that he just wanted to properly introduce the boy to the rich scions of society and his political allies."

"Funny," smirked George, sipping his coconut water. "Last time I asked John what he wanted to do with his life, he launched into a lengthy tirade about saving the turtles from extinction. Pretty far from entering into the political game, I think."

Alexander, who had taken a short pause from devouring the rest of the chop seuy, remarked, "But isn't it important to establish yourself as the guy who holds the most power in the room? If this John already has the advantage of being born under a strong politician, can't he take advantage of that and further his own family in the political game?"

George was about to say something about the inner workings of the so-called _political game_ , as Alexander termed it, when Martha cut him off with a rather inelegant snort.

"Pardon my manners," she said, dabbing her mouth with a paper napkin. "But power, as I like to think of it, comes in many forms. Power because of social standing is weak and easily shattered. But power because of your own achievements and strength, regardless of your past? It's one of the strongest there is, and not easily bowed by petty things like money."

Alexander looked at her as if she was Jesus incarnate. "Please enlighten me."

Martha shared a glance with George in understanding. It seemed as though she was starting to see what he meant when he taked about Alexander's untapped potential. Though George had only known Alexander for a few hours yet, he felt this burst of fatherly pride swell up inside him.

"Well, Alexander," Martha beamed, clearly happy to share her opinion. "It's my own central philosophy that power means nothing if you aren't happy with it. After all, a wise old woman once said, _The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not our circumstances._ "

"Who said that?" Alexander asked.

Martha smiled. "Me."

* * *

Alexander, who was clearly smitten with Martha, volunteered to take care of the dishes. Martha, although she was more than willing to help him, was also very obviously tired. George elected she go to bed early while he stay behind for a while - a suggestion she accepted grudgingly, but accepted nonetheless.

"Good night dears," she called, as she trudged up the stairs.

"Good night," they called back, in unison.

Once George heard the creak as their bedroom door closed shut, he smiled amusedly at Alexander. "You could've asked me for help earlier, you know."

George was close enough to see that Alexander was washing, almost hilariously fittingly, the chopsticks that they were using during dinner. He didn't look back at George when he responded. "I have no idea what you're talking about. And if by _any_ chance I did require of your assistance, even though that will never happen, I'm well enough to do everything on my own."

"Just because you can, doesn't mean you should," George chided him. "You _did_ do well enough on your own, and I'm glad that you're a fast learner, but you still could've asked me to teach you. In fact, that's what you _should_ have done."

Alexander moved on to washing the plates. He placed one on the sink a little more forcefully than he intended, and it made a loud bang. Still, his voice was oddly controlled when he spoke. "I can do it alone."

"So you can," George relented. "But you need to understand that you aren't alone. You have me and Martha now, and who knows who else you meet in the future? Your world is only getting bigger, Alexander. You'll find that it's not a world you want to discover by only yourself."

He would have continued, had it not been for Alexander's aggravated sigh. "But I _will_ , alright? I have to. And when I've discovered myself and my place in the world, that's when I'll present myself. I don't want to be remembered as someone who just got lucky; no, I earned my right to be here. I earned my place here. I've fought for it tooth and nail and I'd gladly die for it."

"Alexander," George started, but the boy just looked at him sharply.

"Listen to me," Alexander said, and it was no request. It was a command. "You want to help me, that's fine. I'd welcome it. But I'm past the age of being coddled and I've fought for every second of my life to get another day. You don't get to treat me as a _child_ just because of the number of years I've lived. I've been through more than the average teenager and I intend to make that count.

"If I'm here, it's for a reason. If I'm alive, then that's for a reason too. I know that there's a whole world out there just waiting for me," he said, eyes shining and jaw set harshly beneath his skin. "But it can be better than what it is, and I can be better than what I am. But I can't do my best if I'm not the best there is to offer. I'll do whatever it takes to be greater than what I was. And when I do, I want to achieve it because of my own worth, my own accomplishments, my own strength."

After a pause, Alexander said quietly, "I was nothing when I was born. I don't intend to die like that."

There was nothing like heartache and the painful urge to hug Alexander in that moment. Knowing that the gesture wouldn't be appreciated, instead, George said, "Alright."

When Alexander tilted his head in confusion, George smiled and just said, "I knew there was more to you than meets the eye, Alexander. By all means, chase after greatness. I'm not holding you back."

Alexander stared at him. "But?"

"But," George continued, "if you have trouble, I expect you to go to me. I don't doubt your potential, I never have and I never will. I told you that I'd give you a supportive household. And if that means teaching you how to use chopsticks or any other inane thing, then alright."

"This is really unnecessary," Alexander began to protest, but George dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"I'm not your father," George explained, and those few words were enough to shut Alexander up. "But I have the duty of one. Remember that, and do finish up the dishes."

George left the kitchen, leaving Alexander speechless.

* * *

"Welcome home, handsome," Martha slurred out the second he entered their bedroom. He raised an eyebrow once he noticed that she was still awake but otherwise said nothing as he changed into a shirt and a pair of boxers. George laid down next to his wife and she positioned herself so she was facing him.

Through bleary eyes and a sleep-laden voice, she excitedly whispered, "That boy is our surrogate son, George! We finally have a _child_."

George smiled at her fondly. "I know, dear."

"We're going to be a _family_ ," she beamed. Though George knew she was only getting emotional because of her drowsy state, he also knew that deep down this was what Martha wanted all along, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.

So George tucked his wife's head under his chin and smiled softly into her hair as she quickly fell back into her slumber.

"I only hope Alexander sees it that way too," he whispered. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. He was almost disturbed by the sound of their door closing, and what sounded like a muffled curse, but George paid no mind to it.

He could worry about that when he woke up.

* * *

The next morning, George woke up early to start thinking up of his lesson plan. He knew that classes were still a few months away, but it never hurt to be prepared. Teaching at Columbia was something he was proud of, and he planned to do his best, however conscious he was of unintentional error. After kissing the forehead of his sleeping wife, he trudged downstairs to find Alexander brewing a fresh batch of coffee.

He turned around to face a surprised George to say, "I'm much more familiar with this."

Inhaling the sweet scent of morning caffeine, George couldn't help but agree as Alexander set down two cups on the table. He sat at the head again, not before grabbing his iPad so he could type down a few ideas. Alexander, who had obviously acquainted himself with the kitchen cupboards, grabbed some cream and sugar to mix with his coffee.

George hummed interestedly; more of a conversation starter than anything else. He'd rather not deal with any more emotional intensity. "Didn't peg you as the type who liked their coffee sweet."

Alexander seemed to pick up on the need to act normal, and nonchalantly shrugged as he took a seat. "I deserve something sweet after all the bitterness."

"Agreed," George said. He took a long drink of his coffee and _ahhhed_ contentedly. "This is a very nice wake-up call."

Ignoring the compliment, Alexander instead scooted over next to George and peeked at his iPad screen. "What are you doing?"

"Planning a few things to do for my students," George responded, flicking out an ad for limousines. "I'm open to suggestions, however I warn against sword fights and rap battles. I've already done those and I would hate to be repetitive."

"You could have them compose a song for their favorite Founding Father," said a sarcastic Alexander.

"Hmm," George said, pretending to consider the idea before shaking his head. "That wouldn't do. I fear an entire musical would have to be made."

Alexander snorted and pretended to hide the way he was smiling under his cup.

Once they heard footsteps, they both looked up to find Martha looking at them with a fond smile from the top of the staircase. "My, don't you two look comfortable. This is almost embarrassingly domestic, really."

George was about to deny it and say something to the effect of _we were just enjoying some coffee together, dear_ and _surely it doesn't look that domestic, does it?_ when Alexander simply smirked at up at Martha with a wink and said, "I guess we do, don't we?"

There wasn't fire in his eyes at that moment but there was a spark. And that was enough.

Therefore George could do nothing more than smile as his wife took a deep breath, her eyes suspiciously shining, and said, "Welcome home."


End file.
